


a shattered façade

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asshole Sherlock, Good Slytherins, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-Hogwarts, Selwyn, Selwyn!Molly, Slytherin, Witch!Molly, seriously looking forward to writing draco like honestly this kid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly gets an unexpected visit from her two dearest friends, she finds that she can't fit into her made-up Muggle life anymore. She has to come out from behind the comfort of her artificial world and come back out to wizards and Muggles alike - but not as Molly Hooper, timid pathologist, but as Mary Margaret Selwyn, proudly half-blood.</p>
<p>[pairings undecided!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which snakes enter morgues

**Author's Note:**

> hello there everyone! so this is my first foray into posting on ao3 and i truly do hope this fic is to your liking! any comments, questions or suggestions - don't hesitate and fingers crossed all goes well! xx

She was used to it now; being overlooked. After all, she was only Molly Hooper here.

 

Her decision to go to a university and reenter the Muggle world after the War ended was definitely one of her better ones. Working at a morgue, especially one with such a large influx of corpses was slightly morbid work, but Molly knew she could handle it; she’d been in a war after all.

 

But she hadn’t severed herself completely from the magical world, of course. She held a small job for the British Ministry: reporting and covering up any magical deaths that the Aurors might not have been able to get to in time. There was a surprising amount of dead werewolves, vampires, and wizards that came up and she had to quickly Portkey to the Ministry before anyone saw. It was a good job.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**

 

There was also Sherlock Holmes.

 

The man possessed a mind of pure brilliance; he could deduce anything about a person with just a glance. He never even caught a whiff of her secret though, for which Molly was thankful and maybe-just-a-bit disappointed. All Sherlock probably thought about her was that she was a silly little girl with a huge crush on him and that she’d do just about anything for him with just a artificial smile and an even more false compliment.

 

So Molly was only slightly ashamed to say that yes, she did think he was aesthetically pleasing and that yes, she did have a teensy crush, but honestly, she also was in desperate need of something at least normal-ish in her life.

 

Blaise always told her that a crush would do her a world of good. Draco would just roll his eyes and whisper that if whomever managed to catch her attention happened to do anything to her, then well… it was something that she wouldn’t want to repeat in front of anyone, that’s for sure.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**

 

Then one day, the lovely little world that she’d created around herself came crashing down when Zabini and the ferret decided to barge into her morgue, bringing with them the smothering aura of happiness.

 

“Blaise? Draco?”

 

“’Lo, _cara_.” “Hey midget.”

 

Molly could only hope that they’d stay calm when Sherlock decided to deduce them. Maybe John could rein him in this time? Probably not though.

 

And speaking of deductions… “You grew up with an extremely wealthy family, very spoilt child. Went to… boarding school where you met our dear Miss Hooper,” He swept an icy-blue-grey gaze back around to focus on Molly for a second before turning back to her now-impassive platinum-blonde friend. “and the man standing right next to you. You’ve done things you’ve regretted very much, you’ve fought some kind of war recently, but you haven’t been to Afghanistan recently, nor Iraq. So some kind of small-scale civil war then. And strangely enough, you see Molly Hooper as a… comrade-in-arms. You act like she fought alongside you when I have substantial proof against that notion.”

 

“And who are you to say that she did not do her part on the battlefield?” Blaise commented with a silky-smooth voice, eyes narrowing at the detective.

 

“Oh! So you admit it?”

 

“Of course, it’s not something that we’d hide.” Draco shrugged nonchanlantly.

 

“Hm. She’s a timid little thing, it would be against her nature to partake in any kind of fight.” Sherlock scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in Molly’s direction.

 

“Sherlock!” John hissed. “You can’t just go around saying things like that to people!”

 

“I can and you’ll find that I just did.”

 

The ex-army doctor groaned frustratedly into his hands and sent a quick apology for his best friend to Molly, who waved it off easily.

 

“ _You_ also grew up in privilege, neglected by mother and dead father. No siblings.” Sherlock started again with Blaise, who had an expression of mild interest plastered on. “Same boarding school, met him and her. You lost people important to you in that civil war. Originally Italian, but you moved to England when you were… four? No, six. Currently unemployed, close friend of Molly’s but again I can’t see why. You two have no reason to be associating with each other, you run in completely different circles and the same with the other one,” He gestured to Draco, who was looking even more cold and closed-off by the second. John noticed the building tension and sighed quietly. “She is of the middle class, vaguely intelligent, overall boring. You, on the other hand, are from the highest of the upper class, cunning, _clearly_ much more interesting…”

 

Blaise sucked in a breath and risked a quick glance at Draco whilst Molly silently glided over to their blonde friend, placing one of her hands on top of his in an attempt to ease his easily-sparked temper. The blonde’s face remained icy as a snowstorm in Russia, but his unsettling silver-grey eyes were warm when he looked at Molly.

 

“You’re wrong about her, Mr Holmes.” The tanned boy told the detective lightly, as if he was trusting him with a well-kept secret. “Our Mary Margaret is much more resourceful than you could ever imagine.”

 

“Now!” He clapped his hands together, slinging an arm around his petite friend’s shoulders. “Come, _cara_ , Drake and I have a favour to ask…”

 


	2. in which the dangerous get drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Molly, Blaise and Draco get themselves drunk off their arses at two in the afternoon and Sherlock and John are getting led on a wild chase to find out who exactly these two strange men are...

The trio had spent the rest of the day laughing and joking with each other, reestablishing the friendship that had lain dormant for years.

 

Blaise and Draco had been busy sorting out pureblood family business post-bellum; more so Draco than Blaise, and Molly had been intent on graduating university and securing herself a good job out in Muggle Britain. Nevertheless, they still clicked with one another, falling into easy banter despite the five years that had been spent with barely any contact between them.

 

“-and so the guy tells me to go get myself a boyfriend! A boyfriend!” Draco fumed, telling them a story about some nutjob that he’d encountered in a pub some time ago after one of his more frustrating days at work. Molly nearly choked herself laughing and Blaise sniggered into his drink. Draco pouted, clearly expecting his friends to be infuriated on his behalf.

 

As soon as she could get herself back under control, Molly giggled, “If it makes you feel any better, I should probably get one too!” At that, the Malfoy heir glowered at her and Blaise snorted, nearly spewing whiskey everywhere.

 

“How about that Holmes bloke?” Draco spat defensively. Molly’s pale cheeks bloomed a bright red and she sent her own glare back at him. Blaise only laughed harder at them.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**  

 

Sherlock had left the morgue in a frenzy shortly after Molly did, ranting to John loudly about the two men she went with as he listened amusedly.

 

When they got back to 221B, the consulting detective immediately whipped off his Belstaff and took out his mobile, hurriedly texting someone, probably his elder brother, judging by the furious mutters of ‘Mycroft’ and ‘thrice-damned favours’.

 

He’d clearly gotten the response he wanted and carelessly threw the device down on the coffee table and plunked down on the couch, immediately retreating into his Mind Palace.

 

John sighed exasperatedly and went down to Mrs Hudson’s kitchen to fix himself some tea; god knows what was going on in theirs.

 

A knock on the door jarred the silence of the flat and the former army doctor rushed to answer it. A flushed young man was on the other side and handed a confused John two thick files before dashing off down the street.

 

“John!” Sherlock’s deep baritone reverberated from upstairs. “Bring the files up to me!”

 

He sighed again and resigned himself to bound up the steps and enter the chaos of his flat again. Placing the folders in his best friend’s outstretched hands, John took a seat in his armchair.

 

Sherlock swung himself upright and tore open the files, his blue-green eyes darting across the pages that were laden with information on the two young men from the morgue, John assumed.

 

“Boring, boring, boring!” The man hissed frustratedly, whipping through the pages with more and more intensity.

 

“They all just say ‘unknown’!” He was about to dial a number on his mobile but it started ringing.

 

The detective answered with an irritated, “Mycroft. I assume you know what you’ve done.”

 

The British government had obviously given an answer that Sherlock didn’t like, since he actually _growled_. “What do you mean, you can’t give me that information?”

 

He hung up and threw the mobile at the wall in a fit of anger, grabbing his coat and scarf and striding through the door with only an imperative ‘come on, John’ over his shoulder.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**  

 

At precisely three o’clock in the afternoon, after getting pleasantly tipsy at the pub, the trio decided to crash at whomever’s flat was the nearest - Blaise’s. He had a penthouse across the street from the only-slightly-shady establishment they had just frequented and luckily for Molly and Draco, he was kind enough to let them sleep in his spare bedroom.

 

“Thanks Blaise.” Draco mumbled into his pillow. Molly grumbled in agreement, snuggling into the blonde’s side. Their friend chuckled and affectionately ruffled their respective heads, shutting the door softly after him.

 

“Afternoon Dray.” She muttered.

 

“G’night Marg.” He groaned incoherently.

 

And with that, the witch and the wizard drifted off into sweet oblivion.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**  

 

The Diogenes Club was in uproar. Sherlock Holmes was _storming_ through with his blogger right at his heels, demanding that he had to see his brother right that second.

 

“Dear god, Sherlock. Must you be so noisy?” Mycroft sighed disapprovingly, opening the door to his office to let them in.

 

“’Fraid so.” John muttered to him, nodding politely at the elder Holmes brother.

 

Sherlock decided to forgo the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk and paced up and down the office instead whilst the former army doctor plopped down gratefully.

 

“Those two men, I asked for _useful_ information Mycroft. _Useful_.” He spat, blue eyes burning with a icy flame.

 

“I’m sorry to say, brother, but that was the most I am legally allowed to give you.”

 

“Legally? Since when did you care about _legally_?"

 

The British Government’s eyes turned hard and cold, “Do not question me, Sherlock. Do not ask for more than I gave you. They are dangerous. Tread carefully.” His tone indicated an obvious dismissal and both Sherlock and John got the message when his eyes flickered towards the door.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**  

 

“Morning sunshines!” Blaise Zabini was a dead man in Draco’s book.

 

The platinum blonde rolled over in bed and moaned, blocking his eyes from the light flooding in from the windows his friend had just opened.

 

“Blaaaaaaaaise,” Molly’s whine came from his left side and he felt her burrow face-first into his side and he immediately tugged her closer in by slinging an arm around her waist.

 

The man had the audacity to laugh. “Come on, you lightweights, I made breakfast.”

 

“Not a lightweight,” Draco protested groggily. “Not hungover.”

 

“Am a lightweight,” Molly groaned, pulling a pillow over and putting it over her head. “Am hungover.”

 

Blaise sighed and yanked the blonde’s pillow from under his head and Molly’s from over hers. For good measure, he whipped the duvet off too before they could even think to make a move for it.

 

“Fine, getting up.” Draco grumbled. He gently extracted his friend from the comfort of his body warmth and staggered over to the connecting bathroom to brush his teeth.

 

The young woman on the bed appeared to have no intentions of getting up anytime soon so Blaise took pity on her and nudged her a few times to get her eyes open, shoving a hangover relieving potion in her hand.

 

“Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”

 

Molly sluggishly maneuvered herself into an upright position, uncorked the opaque bottle and took a sniff just to make sure it was what her friend said it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, but he _did_ get his labels mixed up sometimes…

 

Luckily it actually was a hangover potion and she downed it easily, instantly feeling refreshed.

 

“Better Mols?”

 

“Much.” She skipped up energetically and joined Draco in the bathroom to get ready for the rest of the day.

 

**\- o - o - o - o - o -**  

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John, but mostly Sherlock, were poring over the useless information about the two men that Molly was with, hoping to find something that would prove them to be the ‘dangerous’ men that Mycroft was claiming that they were.

 

“Anything?” John asked tiredly. He hadn’t slept in what felt like forever and had been longing for the comfort of his bed for hours.

 

“Nothing,” The detective muttered impatiently, dismissing his flatmate with a wave of his hand. “You can go now John. I heard you yawning…”

 

He nodded, letting out another yawn before trudging to his room and flopping bonelessly onto his lovely, lovely mattress.

 

Downstairs, the second most intelligent man in all of Great Britain let out a guttural growl of frustration, ruffling his inky-black curls angrily. 


End file.
